“Many things impossible to thought have been by need to full perfection brought.”

Riches cannot rescue from the grave, which claims alike the monarch and the slave.

For they can conquer who believe they can.

They say everything in the world is good for something.

Fiction is of the essence of poetry as well as of painting; there is a resemblance in one of human bodies, things, and actions which are not real, and in the other of a true story by fiction.

Sure there is none but fears a future state; And when the most obdurate swear they do not, Their trembling hearts belie their boasting tongues.

Content with poverty, my soul I arm; And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm.

Welcome, thou kind deceiver! Thou best of thieves; who, with an easy key, Dost open life, and, unperceived by us, Even steal us from ourselves.

While I am compassed round With mirth, my soul lies hid in shades of grief, Whence, like the bird of night, with half-shut eyes, She peeps, and sickens at the sight of day.

Virtue is her own reward.

Good sense and good-nature are never separated, though the ignorant world has thought otherwise. Good-nature, by which I mean beneficence and candor, is the product of right reason.

Hushed as midnight silence.

They, who would combat general authority with particular opinion, must first establish themselves a reputation of understanding better than other men.

For those whom God to ruin has design’d, He fits for fate, and first destroys their mind.

Blown roses hold their sweetness to the last.

Long pains, with use of bearing, are half eased.

If you have lived, take thankfully the past. Make, as you can, the sweet remembrance last.